


His Libertine

by Cloudy_Serendipity



Category: Bucky Barnes - Fandom, Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, the winter soldier - Fandom
Genre: 1940s Bucky Barnes, Bucky the Tempter, F/M, Facial Shaving, Light Smut, Lust, Reader-Insert, Sexual Tension, Shaving Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:48:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22297327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloudy_Serendipity/pseuds/Cloudy_Serendipity
Summary: World War II, London.  Sergeant James Barnes takes an interest in the only daughter of a barber shop owner.  There’s something about you, something dark and wanton, something in the glint of your watchful eyes.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/You
Comments: 7
Kudos: 45
Collections: Cloudy's Star Spangled Bingo 2020





	His Libertine

**Author's Note:**

> Written for @star-spangled-bingo SSB2020, with thanks to @imanuglywombat for being a guinea pig for this <3  
> Playing around with the mood and feel of the characters and emotions, I hope the intended tension carries through my words and into your soullllll muahahahaaa!  
> Warning: Derogatory term for Germans used which is synonymous with the WW2 era (it ain’t my opinion, it’s just to fit in with the time). Plenty of lusty thoughts though, and goddamn if Bucky the tempter isn’t hot as fuck!

The rasp and scrape of the blade against his skin sends a shiver down your spine. An abalone grip meets cold steel, small but deceptively heavy as it trembles in your hand. Those delicate hands that had done little more than clean and sweep had no business holding your father’s best razor, let alone holding it against the throat of one of his customers.

Dark hair, bright eyes and an easy smile; Sergeant Barnes reclines in the barber’s chair. The tilt of his head has exposed the pale skin of his throat, paler by the week since he arrived in London with its glum weather, smog-filled air and lack of sun.

Your father is apprehensive and quite rightly so. You’ve never shaved a man’s face before, only watched. And _ohhh_ how you loved to watch them, vulnerable and exposed with their heads thrown back and jaws slack, all submitting to the perilous caress of the razor.

“Careful with that, girlie,” your father warns. “One slip and the Sergeant won’t be fighting the Jerries no more.”

It’s a nervous laugh the Sergeant lets out and he swallows it down quickly with the bob of his Adam’s apple. He really is a beautiful man. It’s rare for men to be that way, but Sergeant Barnes is to 1943 London what Michelangelo’s David was to 1500’s Florence; he’s a work of art.

“She knows what she’s doing.” His eyes meet yours and they’re glinting with mischief. “She’s watched plenty, haven’t you, Y/n?”

You nod, hand still shaking mere inches from his throat. His use of your name only makes you more nervous. The way it sounds falling from his mouth, albeit muffled with foam, is mesmerising. You’re dragged back to the memory of the first time you’d been on his lips, in name only, but oh how you wanted more.

_“Why is a pretty woman like you not married or on the arm of some suave army man?” His confident compliment made you blush._

_“I’m not a woman.” You looked away as you swept hair clippings into a pile at the back of the shop._

_“Well, sure you are,” the Sergeant said with a cheeky smile, looking dapper with his new haircut and shave. “How old are you? Eighteen? Nineteen?”_

_You nodded, unsure if you should be talking to this man when your father was busy up front with another customer. “I’m nineteen, but my father said I’m still a girl,” you said in a hushed tone._

_“He’s wrong,” he whispered and winked at you subtly. Your resulting smile was involuntary. “What’s your name?”_

_You hesitated but what harm could it do to tell him. “I’m y/n.”_

_“Nice to meet you y/n.” He bowed lightly but did not offer his hand. “I’m Sergeant James Barnes, but my friends call me Bucky.”_

**_That name_ ** _. You couldn’t stop the giggle that bubbled forth and you hoped he wouldn’t be mad but it seemed far too childish for someone like him, someone so charming, someone so self-possessed, so **handsome**._

_He wasn’t mad, laughing along with you until the glint in his eye darkened, deepening your blush. He insisted you call him Bucky but you would never do so in front of your father, it wouldn’t be proper._

_Bucky came by the shop often. If not for a shave or a trim then to see you; a few moments stolen away when you would take the sweepings out to the back where your father stored it to sell as pillow stuffing, and you’d find him waiting. He was never improper but he always had a compliment for you and, gradually, you got bolder. A light touch on his arm here, a flirty reply there. Away from the eyes of the world and out from under the control of your father you were growing, burgeoning into your own person with dreams and needs. **Desires**._

You blink, eyes fluttering as Sergeant Barnes, _Bucky_ , comes back into focus. All eyes are on you as you lean over him, straight razor poised between your fingertips. Bucky is watching you, his eyes dark and needy. You know the look, you’re wearing it too. He’s seen you watching the men as your father stretches their skin and scrapes away their messy stubble, only to find yourself breathless and shaking. They think you’re nervous. They think you’re scared that one of them will get cut and there’ll be blood for you to clean up. Bucky knows better, he knows what the flush of lust looks like and he wants to see you up close.

Your lower lip is caught between your teeth, concentration wrinkling your brow. You’re beautiful, Bucky thinks, rapt as you are by the play of the steel against his skin. He holds his breath as you make your next stroke, dragging the edge up his exposed throat to his jaw where you carefully pull the foam away and wipe against the towel on his shoulder.

The desperate way his eyes search your face is chalked up to nervousness, one of the other men comments on how _the sergeant isn’t so confident now_. He is, he just can’t believe he’s managed to convince the old man to let his only daughter share this moment with him. He’s thankful for his strategically placed hat as his trousers grow tight.

You’re trembling for another reason now as you tilt Bucky’s head to the other side. Your strokes are slow but sure despite the adrenaline surging through you. Your underwear is starting to feel uncomfortable but you’ve never felt such a thrill. The childhood elation of Christmas morning, the excitement of a brand-new store-bought dress, the joy of flowers on Valentine’s day – none of that compares to this. None of it.

Bucky moans lightly when the blade passes down his cheek, but it isn’t just the shave that has him strung tight. It’s the way you absent-mindedly touch him, fingers tilting his jaw or, like now, ghosting across the sensitive skin beneath his ear. If you were alone you’d be in his lap by now, propriety be damned, Bucky hasn’t wanted anything more in his life than he wants you right now, but he also doesn’t want this moment to end. He knows this is the only chance he has with you before you’re back beneath the stiflingly protective wing of your father. Your eyes dart to his, you’re afraid you’ve cut him although there’s nothing but an intense blush forming on his neck. 

His lips are perfect and you shave around them with care. The perfect cupid’s bow of his upper lip stretches out into a smile when you sigh, leaning so close he can see the filaments of colour in your beautiful eyes like bursts of paint splashing out across the canvas of your irises. He shifts his hips in the seat; an attempt to relieve his straining discomfort, an effort in vain.

There’s a tingling in your bosom and in the peaks of your breasts, tightening skin pushing hard against the cloth of your brassiere, thrilling the rest of your skin in a wave of electricity and raised hairs that starts at your nape and settles… down there. You swallow hard, mouth salivating with want. The dimple on his chin begs to be explored and you wonder just how close your shave has been. If you were to run your lips across his skin, would it prickle or would it be as smooth as a virgins inner thigh, _your_ inner thigh.

The blade falters and your breath comes hard, matched only by that of the heavenly man in the chair. He’s given you a gift, one you never thought you’d be so desperate for; that first intimate moment between two people, something shared that would scarcely be understood. But he sees you and you see him, serene despite the red blooming on his skin.

Suddenly you’re being dragged away, your hand steadied by another as the abalone grip leaves your skin to cool alone.

“Damn it girl!” Your father is furious as he shoves you aside.

Bucky is almost out of the chair before he remembers his predicament. “It’s only a nick.” All placatory charm and smiles despite the wild look in his eyes. He’s still fixed on you as you cower in the corner. “No worse than the ones I give myself every day,” he reassures.

Your eyes swim. A rising tide of brine overwhelms you and you sob silently as you leave the shop. Chatter and laughter follow you out into the alleyway, the memory of what was a divine moment now sullied with shame and mockery. Bucky wouldn’t laugh at you, would he?

~~~~~

“Y/n?” You jump, stumbling from the box you’d perched on. Never improper, always caring, Bucky is at your side.

“I’m sorry Sergeant Barnes, I didn’t mean to cut you-“

Bucky silences you with cooing shushes as he slides his hand up to cup your cheek. “I wanted to give you something.” He breathes, leaning closer. “Something that you want but could never ask for.” Closer still, until his lips brush your earlobe, breath tickling the fine hair at your temple. “ _I wanted to be your first_.”

You smell the shaving cream on his skin and the harsh tang of aftershave. He’s so smooth against your cheek, soft against the edge of your lip, and your knees wobble. Out here where anyone can find you, in a filthy alley surrounded by boxes and trash cans, the moist trail of your lips over the skin you stretched yourself before the razors caress leaves you gasping. Your tongue tracing the delicate line of his pulse, ignorant of the bitter bite of your father’s preferred fragrance, has Bucky moaning. He’s giving you this, the exploration, letting you learn what it is to give in to your desire.

You pull back, hungry eyes mirroring his, and when he steps back you don’t feel cold and alone. There’s a fire in your belly now and you know what you want. There might be more, other men who sit in the chair for you, maybe there won’t, but Bucky will always be the first. The first, and maybe the only, man to see the deep needful facets of your soul and not be disgusted.

“Will you touch yourself tonight, thinking of us?” He asks with an impish grin as he steps back to a more respectable distance.

Your eager nod has him sighing as his head lolls back, exposing the throat that had you salivating earlier. But when he leaves you this time it’s with a promise of secrets kept and a tryst to be made. He calls you his libertine, and with a whistle and a jaunty step he’s wearing his mask once more. Sergeant James Barnes, always respectful, always polite, and _never_ improper.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. I love hearing from you guys so feel free to leave a comment or kudos to let me know what you thought, or you can come see me on my Tumblr [@crushedbyhyperbole](https://crushedbyhyperbole.tumblr.com/) for a chat :)  
> Much love from me <3


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